The problem, perhaps my central problem, is that I'm naturally lazy. I want to short circuit the path to brilliance, to excellence in art, in expression, in being a human worthy of approbation. I've all but given up on philosophy. Argument, or even friendly philosophic discourse, has lost much of its appeal; in short, I am not inclined to want to proffer reasons for my beliefs, whatever they may be (I'm not sure) anymore. I think there is too much egoism involved in being an ironist to ever become one. I agree with Rorty that doubt is a luxury: skepticism can morph into decadence, and I despise those sloppy of spirit. I similarly am in possession of a passionate hatred (too strong a word?) for nihilism in its moral and value manifestations, though there is a creeping suspicion that haunts the core of my being that there is no God and that moral reality is contingent on human desire. Disgusting! How perverse and goddamned disgusting reality would be if such were the case. Epistemic nihilism strikes me as self defeating, and talk of "the myth of reality" as the words of one divorced from experience.
Everything rings hollow. I am increasingly intolerant of any form of sensory stimulation. Noises that used to go unregistered to consciousness now sound like a bell tolling ten feet away. I increasingly hate all things human, and yet am of the understanding that it may be that human beings are my only salvation. I am so lonely. It is a little strange that I would lament my loneliness, or I shall say, experience loneliness while at the same time experience a rising misanthropy. Contradiction. I am a man of contradictions.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
How could one, considering the imposing, overwhelming nature of the universe, ever consider himself "large?" I am small and contain multitudes.